Partners In Crime
by HappyDaftie
Summary: A continuing sequel to First Impressions, featuring the evolving partnerships between Murdoch, Crabtree, and Brackenreid
1. Chapter 1 Dressed To Kill

Hello again!

Thanks to the encouragement of some lovely first reviews, I've posted another story. It's a sequel to First Impressions, and to be honest, I hadn't planned on writing it. But then I had an idea on how to continue that first story, by writing some short tags to some of my favourite scenes, and those times when Brackenreid must have needed a _really_ stiff drink.

I'm starting with one of the funniest moments from season one, and what I'm sure is a favourite scene for many others too. I've used its dialogue purely for this fanfiction, which I hope is okay.

Partners In Crime – Chapter One

Dressed To Kill

George knew there had to be method to his mentor's apparent madness, but for the life of him – no, however hard he tried, he just couldn't see the connection between a lady's dress and a… pig. Not a feasting pig either, but one still fresh enough to have kept a good supply of blood in its body

Stranger still, the butcher at the slaughterhouse hadn't been at all surprised by his rather odd request. He'd just looked at him, almost in sympathy, and smiled, finding the whole thing inexplicably amusing.

Even the pig in front of him seemed to know more than he did, which was even more unsettling. He knew it was completely irrational, too, but he was sure it was staring at him with its cold, dead eyes. If pigs had their own version of the afterlife, then George knew this beady eyed creature would take some form of supernatural, porcine revenge. Plague him with nightmares, perhaps, or leave him with a sudden loathing of bacon.

Still, who was he, a humble lad from Newfoundland, to question the whims of William Murdoch? After all, it was thanks to him that he was living a long held dream, and learning to be a _real_ detective. So yes, whatever his mentoring hero asked of him, he would move heaven and Earth to do it.

He might _just_ have drawn the line at wearing a dress, though, especially so close to the station house. And even more so when wearing it over his shirt and trousers made it an uncomfortably snug fit. It was also making it rather hard to concentrate on what Murdoch was now explaining to him.

"Newton's third law states that for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction…"

'_I_'_m_ _sure it does_, _sir,_ _but Crabtree_'_s_ _first law states that he really does __not__ belong in a dress._'

"…so fire a bullet into the body, and the body pushes back with equal force. Hence, blood spatter."

Fascinating indeed, but George's thoughts were focussed on rather more ordinary, natural things – like trying to breathe and speak, when all the air had just been tugged and squeezed out of his lungs.

"That's a _bit_ snug in the bosom, sir."

For once, though, his guiding mentor had little regard for his suffering protégé's comfort, or dignity. Instead, he seemed more interested in unfolding his ruler, and nudging him towards that wretched pig.

"Right then, step forward six inches. Eighteen inches, we'll start there. Away you go."

Dutifully doing as told, George then frowned. After all, he knew what happened when you fired a gun into a body. And the thought of being covered in warm, sticky blood wasn't one that he was looking forward to. So envying the fact that Murdoch had stepped out of range, he felt fully justified in asking his question.

"Will there be much spatter, sir?"

For him, of course, it was a perfectly reasonable point. For some reason, though, Murdoch answered it with slightly less than his usual patience.

"That's what we're here to find out, George… now hurry up, shoot. The blood is draining from the pig's flanks!"

That may well be the case, but George was now more concerned with the other end of its anatomy. Imagination be damned, those squinty little eyes were still peering accusingly back at him. Try as he might, he just couldn't pull the trigger until it stopped. And as a man of science, he knew the great Murdoch would understand his predicament.

"It's… staring at me, sir."

"George, the animal is _dead_,_" _Murdoch reminded him patiently. "There's no spirit left in the body."

Well, that was a comfort, George thought. He felt slightly better, at least. But answering that question had only served to make his insatiable curiosity think of another.

"Do pigs have a soul then, sir?"

Ah. Apparently, that was one question too many. His mild mannered mentor now sounded scarily like his Inspector.

"_NOW_, George!"

Bracing himself for whatever revenge that pig would take on him, George took a breath, and fired – blinking in surprise as a tolerably fine spray of blood spread across the bodice of his dress.

Well, that wasn't so bad as he'd expected. It hadn't touched his face, or his hands. Detective Murdoch looked quite pleased about it, too – measuring its size so intently that he didn't notice how curiously they themselves were being studied. And for George, an already embarrassing situation had just become infinitely worse.

Not for the first time, his Inspector was staring at him as if he were ready to have him committed. George could see his point. He was wearing a woman's dress that was liberally sprayed with blood. With what remained of his dignity, he then offered him the most appeasing defence he could think of.

"I – I just shot a pig, sir."

"Yes, thank you, Crabtree! I can bloody see that!" Brackenreid thundered back at him, the next part of his tirade divided between two barmpots who, he swore, would be the death of him. "But you know what worries me more? Where _you_ two are concerned, I'm not bloody surprised!"

About to vehemently protest his innocence, George then wisely changed his mind. Given his current state of dress, he knew it would be a waste of time. Instead, he followed his still muttering Inspector, and gently smiling mentor, back into the station-house.

In his eagerness to study his findings, though, Murdoch had forgotten one rather important point. His more or less willing partner was rather strikingly out of uniform. By the time they reached the lobby, he'd run a gauntlet of cheers, whistles, and _two_ proposals of marriage - making it impossible for William to keep a straight face either as he gave George's shoulder a consoling pat.

"Thank you, George. Now, you'd, um, best get changed."

"And make sure I'm invited to _all_ your weddings, bug-a-lugs, or there'll be serious trouble," Brackenreid threw in, with far too much amusement at his beleaguered constable's expense.

As more raucous laughter followed him upstairs, George could only sigh and shake his head while he changed gratefully into a fresh tunic. It was going to be a _very _long day.


	2. Chapter 2 Lost In Translation

This is my second chapter for Partners In Crime. I'd also like to thank everyone who left such kind reviews for the first.

One of the things I love most about the series is the background antics of the constables in the stationhouse. I also adore George's unique and lovely accent. So with that in mind, I've written this tag to one of my favourite scenes from Child's Play.

Again, I've used some dialogue from the scene, which I hope I've heard correctly. I hope you enjoy the story too!

Partners In Crime - Chapter Two

Lost In Translation

It started so innocently, with a certain sense of irony for the officers at stationhouse four. There was a thief in their midst. A brave but foolish scoundrel had taken an essential piece of their kit. If they didn't catch the culprit soon… well, for him, and everyone else, there'd be hell to pay. No-one, not even his Inspector, dared to touch Perkins' chess set. _Especially_ in the middle of a game.

As Brackenreid had observed from the relative safety of his office, the lad was _not_ a happy constable. When they'd seen him turn his desk upside down to find it, the others had scattered like skittles – preferring to face Toronto's worst criminals, instead of the wrath of their now _not_ so gentle giant.

Only Higgins had stayed behind with Hodge to man the front desk, which was sensibly wise too. At least it would give them something to hide behind, for when Perkins found who'd ruined his game.

Crabtree had stayed around too, and… oh, bloody hell! What was young bug-a-lugs up to now? Why was he scuttling between his desk and Murdoch's office, and looking so damn furtive about it?

No, Brackenreid realized, it wasn't furtive so much as just far too innocent. And from his experience, any time that butter-wouldn't-melt face held an expression like this, it only ever led to one thing. Trouble, with a capital T. And yet another call to his favourite supplier of finest, strongest whisky.

So when he made yet another trip into Murdoch's office, Brackenreid instinctively followed him – not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or run for the safety of the border as he realized what he was up to.

A map featuring the glue factory, and its immediate surroundings, was spread out on the sideboard. And placed with great but not immediately obvious care around it… well, it just had to be, didn't it? From pawns and rooks, to kings and queens, the missing pieces from Perkins' chess set had finally turned up.

If he was at all aware of the consequences, though, then Crabtree wasn't showing any concern about it. Instead, he greeted his Inspector with a bright smile. The one that, even if he'd never know it, could melt the steeliest of Sheffield hearts.

"Sir! I was just coming to get you! Yes, Inspector, I believe I've come up with a plan of attack."

"Oh, have you now?" Brackenreid nodded, turning to greet Murdoch who, as he'd done, was staring at his commandeered sideboard in puzzled amazement. "Your protégé's been thinking again, Murdoch. It's dangerous."

Despite himself, though, Brackenreid couldn't hide the affection behind his amusement. Not content with driving him to despair, distraction, _and_ drink, young Crabtree was a force of nature. A bundle of energy who, more often than not, also needed his own bloody translator. But then, Crabtree came from a place wholly different to the city they both now called home. When they'd first met, and he'd asked if everyone from Newfoundland spoke the way he did – well, he still didn't know if the lad had been seriously respectful, or taken the proverbial pee.

"_Oh no_, _sir_! _Not like myself_, _some have the most unfathomable accents_!"

Fiercely proud of his own unique Englishness, the irony hadn't been lost to Brackenreid either, then or now. Still, at least they'd worked together for long enough to understand each other. Well, most of the time. He was quite proud of the fact that he was managing to follow his latest crackerpot theory without Murdoch's help to translate it.

So far so good. The lad had put a lot of thought into this plan. And, Brackenreid noted in silent surprise, some of it actually made sense. But as George hit his stride, all that started to unravel. And as often happened when his enthusiasm ran away from him, his accent grew even broader too.

"…now, there are only two baaaarns…"

Brackenreid blinked at that, then frowned. Baaaarns? What the hell was one baaaarn, let alone two? Oh, bloody hell. No, he had no choice. He had to ask.

"Two _what_?!"

"Baaaarns," George repeated, trying to be helpful when, in fact, he'd been of no help at all. To his Inspector, he sounded like a five foot ten inch sheep.

"Barns," Murdoch added, rather more helpfully, and with just a trace of his rare, mischievous smile. Returning it, Brackenreid nodded in grateful approval.

"Oh, _barns_. Right."

With that now kindly clarified, both of them settled back to hear the rest of George's 'plan of attack.' Trading glances, neither of them having the heart to tell him that he hadn't quite thought it all the way through. And where Brackenreid's straight talking sarcasm failed, it took Murdoch's quietly tactful intervention to help him see where his stake out _should_ be held.

"Well, we know for certain where the stolen horses will end up. Don't we?"

Ah, thought Brackenreid, the light has finally dawned. As eager naivety turned into a familiar, embarrassed grin, Murdoch gave his protégé's arm a quick pat to re-boost his confidence.

"That's good work anyway, George."

George may have appreciated the gesture. Then again, he always would. But for his Inspector, Murdoch's words had raised a truly terrifying prospect.

"Good work? You're going to turn him into another bloody Murdoch!"

Now _there_ was a thought that made him stride back to his office, for a double hit of his finest Scotch. _Two_ Murdochs, plaguing him with their crazy ideas? Bloody hell, he could cope with one! So it was really very fortunate that he didn't hear the covert scheming that he'd left behind. Glancing at his equally amused mentor, George's eyes shone with a dangerously familiar glint.

"You know, sir, that really isn't such a bad idea."

"You mean the good fortune of having _two_ detectives at his disposal?" William asked, still smiling – leaving the rest of that comment to the mercies of an equally brilliant, if more mischievous mind. "Yes, you're right, George. I think it's an _excellent_ idea."


	3. Chapter 3 Lessons Learned

Hello again! Yes, I'm back, with another chapter for this continuing series. I'm really enjoying writing it, and hope you're enjoying it too. Again, my thanks for the kind reviews I've had for it.

This latest story was inspired by another of my favourite 'Murdoch Moments.' It's that wonderful scene From Annoying Red Planet, where George finds out the hard way how _not_ to mount a horse.

Like the infamous 'pig-shooting' scene, I've watched it over and over again too, and it still leaves me in fits. So the temptation was to write an equally funny story from it.

Then I watched it again, and thought William was unusually sharp when he asked George if he could ride. He also sounded a bit annoyed when he asked how he got his job. Given how much he idolises him, I think George would be quite upset if he thought he'd done something that Murdoch disapproved of.

So with that in mind, I've written this slightly more serious 'missing scene'. It fills the gap between the time they leave town to where George comes out with his theory on how Gaston dies. Shot out of a cannon, eh? As Murdoch would say, as only he can - "Oh, _George_!"

Enjoy!

Partners In Crime – Chapter Three

Lessons Learned

There were times when William Murdoch felt sure his protégé was smarter than he let people believe. Yes, he could be startlingly naïve, too easily swayed by his own wild imagination. But every so often, as his mentor had come to increasingly appreciate, George could also be surprisingly resourceful.

If he couldn't find bicycles to transport them to their crime scene, he'd soon find an ideal alternative. Miles from the city's better amenities, he'd put that friendly charm to perfect use, persuading a local farmer to let them borrow Gertrude and Whitey for the length of their stay. He'd even taken the trouble to glean the origins of Gertrude's name from her no doubt flattered owner. It was a simple but typically thoughtful touch, that endeared the young constable to everyone he met.

On the other hand, that youthful enthusiasm could also overwhelm the better caution of common sense. Procuring these horses had shown admirable initiative, but you also needed to know how to ride them. And as that clumsily graceless fall had demonstrated, George Crabtree did _not_ know how to ride.

Not that he'd ever see it that way, of course. Bouncing along on Whitey's back, he thought exactly the opposite.

"I think I'm getting the hang of it, sir!"

With the benefit of greater experience, _and_ ability, William knew how far that was from the truth. As he'd learned himself, the painfully hard way, these frettish whinnies were _not_ a good sign. And if he couldn't cope with a simple trot, then what would happen if Whitey grew tired of this bouncing load, and decided to get rid of it?

So yes, he had to bring his young friend down to Earth, now, before Whitey beat him less kindly to it.

"Take care, George. You're riding a powerful animal now, _not_ a Shetland pony," he said at last, a telltale flattening of Whitey's ears confirming his concerns that George lacked the skill to handle him if he bolted. "And a horse that's sensed the inexperience of its rider can quickly turn that to its advantage."

He hadn't meant to sound so sharp, just as he hadn't meant his earlier words to be misconstrued. But from the way his face fell, George had clearly taken this advice as more critical disapproval. Another reminder that exaggerating his abilities to join the constabulary had _not_ been a good idea. And as an awkward silence set in between them, William felt a rueful regret tug at his conscience.

That was the trouble with being a mentoring hero. You were regarded through such idolising eyes. Your praise meant everything, but the slightest hint of disapproval could be taken so much the other way. So however trivial the reason, the thought of disappointing him would affect George deeply, and dent that cheerful confidence.

Not daring to speak, for fear of further reproach, he'd withdrawn into this unnatural silence, no doubt to fret over where this exaggeration of his abilities might lead with his Inspector, _and_ his more superior officers. However noble their intentions, a police officer who couldn't ride was in potentially serious trouble.

So yes, he had an awful lot to think about now. And since he'd brought the subject up to start with, William felt honour bound to try and resolve it. Except this time, he took greater care to speak gently, so that George couldn't misinterpret the support he was trying to give him.

"Everything you need for this job _can_ be taught, George. Including how to ride a horse."

He'd hoped for one of those shy, lopsided grins. Or a flash of that gently wry humour. But, to his disappointment, George just nodded, preferring to study the woodland around them. For several reasons, William couldn't blame him. It had been a breathtaking Fall, and many trees still held their colour. Yet William couldn't fully enjoy their lovely range of reds and russets and golds. All the time George was lost to him in this chagrined silence, they couldn't hope to share their beauty.

Gradually, though, William could see subtle movements, that made it impossible for him not to smile. In his peripheral vision, he could see how keenly George was watching him. Mirroring his every move. The way he held Gertrude's reins. Each shift of his legs, and his feet in the stirrups, to control her pace. Relaxing into the roll of Whitey's gait took a bit more practice. But, eventually, he mastered that too.

For his persistence alone, and pride for his young protégé's faith in him, William felt his smile widen. If imitation really was the sincerest form of flattery, then, on this occasion, it was also the sweetest. And if George still trusted him enough to copy his example, then maybe he was ready to talk now too

"So, George… this Shetland pony you had as a child…"

Startled by this change in mood, George then recognized its significance and relaxed again, smiling shyly back at him.

"Yes, sir! Yes, his… um… name was Hamish… and – and he had the most sweetest of natures."

On the verge of adding more colourful detail to his childhood adventures, his cheery smile suddenly faded. He'd hit it hard already today, and the ground was an _awfully_ long way down.

"Though I have to admit, sir, Whitey's a _lot_ bigger. And rather higher up on his legs."

He'd tried to make light of it, of course, but his uncertainty had clearly returned. For the first time in his life, he was riding a real, and _very_ big horse. But this time, William knew exactly how to respond to it.

"Yes he is, George, but don't let that unsettle you. You're doing fine. Very well indeed."

The smile came back full force this time, and William was more than happy to return it. As he watched George point to the gloriously coloured scenery around them, he could finally begin to enjoy it too. Yes, the awkwardness of before was completely gone now, soothed away by the close friendship between them. And as he listened to George's typically outlandish theory on how Gaston had met his end, he felt a warm, familiar contentment spread through him.

That was the best thing about being a mentor. As you taught others, you learned so much about yourself too.


	4. Chapter 4 Wild Wild Murdoch

Hello, all! Yes, after a bit of a break, I'm back with the next instalment of this continuing series.

For all sorts of reasons, Mild Mild West is one of my favourite overall episodes. Most of the scenes which make it such a favourite are included in this chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Partners In Crime - Chapter Four

Wild Wild Murdoch

Ah, blissful quiet. For Thomas Brackenreid's thudding head, it was a rare moment, to gratefully savour. Even Crabtree had recognized his Inspector's delicate state, and was keeping sensibly out of his way. Instead, he'd tucked himself away in Murdoch's office, following his mentor's latest orders with the same puppyish delight with which he'd accepted… _that_.

Studying the 'that' in question, where it sat proudly on his desk, his Inspector couldn't help but smile. Only Crabtree could take such delight in wearing such a ridiculous hat, that was far too big for him. And only Crabtree could believe his mentor's explanation that it was a _really_ early birthday present. Two months early, in fact, but… no, he'd still taken Murdoch's word as gospel, and worn the daft thing for the rest of the day.

If he was ever given such a ridiculously stupid hat, he'd try the same thing. But _he'd_ wait until early March, so he didn't arouse the lad's suspicions. Not even Crabtree's exploitable innocence would fall for the same trick twice.

He also had his reasons, no doubt, for covering Murdoch's office with sheets of muddied paper. But trying to follow the method to his latest madness was just too much of an effort for his suffering Inspector. Instead, he turned his chair around and closed his eyes, so that he could reflect more comfortably on the latest surprising discoveries he'd made about his ever surprising detective.

He could toss a rope as well as any ranch-hand. Put glue to all sorts of unlikely uses. And the next time some ruffian tried to outrun him, he'd just call for Murdoch, and the nearest horse.

Still not much of a sense of humour, though. And no appreciation at all for the art of mimicry.

'_Any place the killer came in contact with will yield evidence_,_ no matter how slight._'

He was about to discover, though, that William Murdoch _did_ have a sense of humour after all. He hadn't seen Margaret confront him, or heard him take the flak for his latest fall off the wagon. But he was going to feel its consequences. And it started with the head-splitting crash of his door.

**_BANG_**!

Startled out of his seat, Brackenreid landed back into it with a force that squeezed the breath out of his lungs in a groaning whisper.

"Murdoch? What is it?"

"I've just received this," Murdoch explained, brandishing a telegram that swam in front of his Inspector's eyes. When blinking at it only made the room spin even harder, Brackenreid waved a hand in suffering defeat.

"Just – Just read it."

With no directions on _how_ to read it, the evil streak of Murdoch's humour grew wider. _And_ louder.

"**It's a telegram from the Marshal in Rio Grande, confirming**…"

Bloody hell, was Murdoch trying for Toronto's next Town Crier? For his aching, pounding head, bugger that.

"Shhh… sssshhhh…"

Deserved or otherwise, this plea finally found mercy from his unlikely tormentor. Murdoch's voice thankfully dropped to a more bearable level.

"…confirming a suspicion I had, about Lightning Wilcox. His real name is Harry 'The Gun' Bowler, partner of One Tooth Ackerson."

Despite his suffering, Brackenreid still felt his curiosity pique into a puzzled question.

"Two dead gunmen?"

"It would seem their pasts are coming back to haunt them," Murdoch agreed, frowning slightly at his next point.

"Yeah, but which part of it? They did a lot of bad things in their day."

That was the most obvious reason, of course. But Murdoch had already taken it to the next, most logical conclusion.

"I suspect it has something to do with killing Chester McGee."

In far too delicate a state to follow such mercurial leaps of deduction, Brackenreid just grunted.

"Mm, just another one of Buffalo Bill's legends."

If he was hoping that Murdoch would just let this go, though, he was sorely disappointed. And, he had to admit, his detective had a valid point.

"Every myth has a basis in reality."

"True enough," Brackenreid conceded, forcing himself to concentrate on that enviably sharp mind's next feat of logical brilliance.

"I suggest we contact Carson City, where the event allegedly took place."

_We_? As in his good old, long suffering Inspector? Sod that. And since his rank held the privilege of delegation, he was going to use it. Right now.

"I'll get the desk sergeant to send a telegram."

"Right, then," Murdoch nodded, thankfully taking the hint that his Inspector had far better things to do with his time than listen to more of his crazy theories. Like trying to keep his head from exploding.

As he headed for the door, Brackenreid rested his head on the back of his chair, and closed his eyes once more. Tomorrow, he would, he really would, cut down on his drinking. Just one a day, from now on. Swear to God, and hope to -

**_BANG_!**

**- **die. Which right now felt like a merciful option. And the drinking? Bugger that, he'd stop completely.


	5. Chapter 5 An Advancement Of Learning

Ooooh, my fifth chapter! How exciting!

The idea for this instalment came from a comment left by Demosthenes23 for Lessons Learned. It made me realize that, so far, I haven't really featured Brackenreid in this series. That's a shame, because he's just as wonderful a character as William and George.

It also made me wonder how the relationship we normally see between them might be reversed, where it's Murdoch who learns a valuable lesson from his Inspector. So with the end of Convalescence as its setting, here are my thoughts on how Murdoch learns that his hopes for George's future might need a bit of a re-think.

I hope you enjoy it. And thanks again to Demosthenes for the inspiration!

Partners In Crime – Chapter Five

An Advancement Of Learning

Politely declining Brackenreid's offer of a 'medicinal tonic', William eased himself carefully onto the couch in the Inspector's office. He'd assured Julia that he was fit to return to light duties, but – well, right now he wasn't so sure. Well meaning hands had patted his back a little _too_ enthusiastically, and as for George - well, if not for his Inspector's intervention, he'd have probably re-cracked his still healing ribs. So this chance to find a more restful sanctuary in Brackenreid's office was one that he'd gladly taken.

Resting his injured leg on a courteously provided chair, he then settled into the couch's comfort with a grateful sigh, smiling his thanks for the cup of tea that Brackenreid had found for him, instead of that ever present Scotch. After such an eventful week, and six inescapable days of Mrs Kitchen's cooking, it felt good to be back.

Sipping his tea, he glanced fondly around him, at the familiar sight of station four at work, _and_ play. Much of that frivolity came from George, of course, who'd acquired a new, strikingly exotic pet. As he'd explained with that irrepressible enthusiasm, Mr Struthers and 'Sherlock' just hadn't got on. Every time the eccentric explorer spoke, he'd received a tirade of squawking French insults. And since he'd helped his protégé to solve his first case, the solution had been elementarily simple.

Perched on the back of George's chair, Sherlock had taken his place as their latest, if rather unlikely, crimefighting asset – on their Inspector's gruff provision that he '_teach that bloody bird the Queen_'_s_ _bloody English_.'

Maybe that was what George and Henry were laughing about, William thought through another indulgent smile. After all, the thought of a French speaking parrot taking on a Newfoundland accent _was_ rather amusing. Even Brackenreid was smiling at their light-hearted antics, clearly delighted that George had repaid his faith in him, and solved the case. But, of course, he couldn't pay his bug-a-lugs a compliment without taking a teasing shot at him first.

"That bird's going to be the most pampered bloody parrot in history," he muttered, rolling his eyes as they watched George feed his new pet with another piece of his sandwich.

Even as he nodded, though, he knew Murdoch wasn't buying it for a moment. He knew this gruff bluntness came from a deep affection for the young constable, who was such an irrepressible handful. So, as always, this apparent disapproval was completely betrayed by the pride that now filled his next words. A true compliment, in every sense.

"I had to nudge him a bit, keep his focus and confidence on track, but… yes, he did a grand job for you, me old mucker. Kept at it, until he had it cracked."

"Where George is concerned, sir, I'd expect nothing less," William replied just as proudly, the achievement of his young protégé solving his first case raising another point, that had always privately niggled him. "I know I'll never change the constabulary's stance, sir, but… well, is there any possible way…?"

"…for him to make detective without its formal requirements?" Brackenreid finished for him, shaking his head, in his own frustration for the bureaucratic idiocy that he was forced to uphold. "All the time we have tossers like Stockton in charge, I think we _both_ know the answer to that."

Wincing slightly at this less than flattering description of their senior officer, William nodded. Such narrow mindedness infuriated him too, and he was moved by more than a friend's natural loyalty to protest against it.

"If he just had the chance, sir, with the right encouragement, he'd make an _excellent_ detective."

Just a few years ago, Brackenreid would have treated that thought with the same scornful derision as his peers. Crackernut Crabtree, making detective? Aside from his lack of education, and clownish humour, he'd have found it ludicrous. Unthinkable. But working under what he dryly called the Murdoch Effect had slowly, but surely, changed his mind.

Under his mentor's patient, steadying guidance, young Crabtree wasn't just living his personal dream. He was channelling that once clumsy curiosity into a real, and genuine, talent for solving crimes. Not just that, he worked bloody hard, he could be dead serious when he had to be, and could ferret out vital clues like a human bloodhound. So yes, he could understand Murdoch's point, and share his hopes for a more deserving future.

The more he thought about it, though, the more it occurred to him that, maybe, they'd got it wrong. Young bug-a-lugs was doing just fine where he was, yet Murdoch didn't seem to understand that. Watching him, watching George, a wry smile then tugged at his mouth. Well, wasn't this a turn up for the books? _He'd_ get to be the voice of logic for a change, and put the great Murdoch on the right track. That alone merited another hit of finest Scotch, before he made his point.

"If you really want what's best for him, me old mucker, you'll keep things exactly as they are."

Oh, this was a turn up for the books alright. For once, the city's greatest detective was staring at _him_, totally stumped. Still cherishing this priceless moment, Brackenreid grinned while giving him another, helpful nudge towards the light.

"Suppose he _did_ make the grade, and made detective… where do you think he'd go from there?"

With a clearer point to focus on, William considered it for a few moments, then shrugged at its most obvious solution.

"Well, as he gained experience, I'd imagine he'd be assigned to another station," he said at last, frowning at the thought of losing his irreplaceable protégé, and frowning even more when Brackenreid rolled his eyes.

"You know, for such a genius, Murdoch, you can be bloody dense sometimes."

Taking this insult with the tolerance of much experience, William returned it, in equally dry humoured kind.

"So I've been told, sir."

Rolling his eyes again, Brackenreid then grinned as he watched George settle down to his latest paperwork. The lad drove him spare sometimes, but every day, every night, he earned his salary. And when he decided playtime was over, he got his head down, and kept it there. He had to admire him for that.

"He'd be stuck in the same, blinkered dark ages that _you_'_re_ trying to bring him out of," he went on, switching his attention back to William, to complete the point that his detective still hadn't quite grasped. "Look, I don't need to tell you, Murdoch… most of what you tell me goes way over my head."

For 'most', of course, he really meant 'all'. Luckily, Murdoch was too much the gentleman to say so. Instead, he listened in startled gratitude to the encouragement that followed, with such genuine pride.

"But you and Crabtree, Murdoch… _you _understand it. You both see that times are changing, and this constabulary needs to change with them. So stick at it, me old mucker. You teach young bug-a-lugs everything you can. Because when it comes to policing, _you_'_re_ its future."

Smiling back at him, William now nodded with the fresh hope and purpose of the newly enlightened. If his Inspector was right, if he really _could_ lead the way in forensic science, then he'd gladly do so – happy in the knowledge that, wherever those advances led him, his faithful protégé would surely follow.


End file.
